Fight
by froovygirl
Summary: Snippets of the many times Anakin Skywalker chose to fight, and the one time he didn't.
1. Chapter 1 - Reminder

_Anakin, after his reunion with Padme in ROTS…_

He cannot fight anymore.

He is weary down to the marrow that fortifies his body, his spirit tattered enough for two torturous lifetimes.

This war has stolen so much already, he thinks, idly flexing the digits of his durasteel arm. The loss of his limb, he cannot feel anymore, but the vestige of sorrow that follows him after he leaves the paradise of _her_ arms will bring the Hero With No Fear to his knees someday, of that he is certain.

When he lies on a makeshift bunk (if he's lucky) or the ruins of another battlefield (if he's not), sometimes he allows a small indulgence. In a crevice of his worn tabard, he carries a scrap of pristine lace, delicate and eerily beautiful, just like his bride on the sun-drenched balcony of Varykino.

They'd lingered in silken sheets the last morning of their honeymoon, languidly tangled, when she'd presented him with the little snip. It smelled of the sapflowers she'd carried in her bouquet and shuura nectar he'd tasted on her lips; its scent was unmistakably Padme, and himself, and the lingering aromas of their first hours as husband and wife.

"To remind you what you're fighting for," she'd whispered, kissing first the snippet of her wedding gown softly, then his waiting mouth with much more thoroughness.

_Padme._ He aches for those precious moments: Her decadent purr when his lips brush the inside of her knee, the expanding slope of her belly rippling with fledgling arms and legs. _Our_ child, he thinks fiercely, flesh-hand clenched in a promise to his unborn.

You will know love, my daughter. You will know freedom, and peace, and unbidden joy. You will know that I am your father and that my love goes far beyond this or any other galaxy.

What you will never know, my son, is shame, fearfulness, servitude. You will not be forced in your ideals or your passions. You will not bow, nor cower, nor feel helpless before another.

Never.

You will be light. You will be accomplishment. You will be born from love and nurtured within it, and the rules of the Order be banished to the hells of Corellia.

Later, he wakes in disjointed panic and searches the cracks of moonlight for creamy skin and wayward curls.

His angel is drained from carrying their children – _two_ Force signatures call to him now – but she slumbers comfortably by his side. He brushes her cheek with the back of his hand, rough and scarred against her smoothness, and heaves a deep sigh.

He is not naïve enough to dismiss what just occurred as a mere dream. If his mother's death did nothing else, it strengthened his resolve to trust himself more than his Jedi teachings, at least in matters of Force visions.

It still makes his mouth curl into a snarl that he doesn't temper, his master's blithe observation that "dreams fade in time."

He fervently wishes he could possess Obi-Wan's omnipresent faith. But he's experienced the living nightmares that make him fairly terrified to close his eyes. He's held his mother in his arms, willed her to_ fight_ with him, brushed that Force-forsaken sand from her cracked lips as she'd withered painfully into nothingness.

He'd killed them all, the Tusken Raiders and their kind. Butchered them mercilessly with deft, controlled strikes of his lightsaber and ignored the screams of the innocent. Until they were as gutted as he felt.

But he does not want to fight anymore; _Force,_ he doesn't! His entire life, it seems, has been molded by the nicks and burns and bloodshed of battle.

But, as he hears the patter of Padme's slippers, senses her concern as their unborn children come awake within her warmth, he squares his shoulders, steels himself. Somehow, he must heed this vision and alter its course. At risk is everything left that he holds dear.

The Chosen One is weary, but for his family, he will fight again.

_finis_


	2. Chapter 2 - Light

Disclaimer: The characters belong to George Lucas, but this scenario came from my head.

Notes: I messed up the title of this fic, as I'm a rookie in navigating this site. The true title is "Fight," and the first chapter should've been called "Reminder." No matter; I'll get the hang of this soon. Things are jumbled around; this should actually be the last chapter, but it was clanking around in my head, demanding to be written, so I obeyed my muse.

If you find your way to this, please send me some feedback so I'll know if I'm on the right track with this series. Much obliged!

_Anakin/Vader, being remade in the hours after Mustafar…_

The light… where did it go?

For just a second, it had nearly blinded him with unapologetic brightness, rays of it filling his vision and, for a few merciful moments, subduing the agony that twists what is left of his body.

Burning, he's _burning_ from the inside, flames penetrating his very bones with brutal efficiency. The fire has consumed him, _become_ him, but if he can just smother it maybe the pain will recede, maybe he can rise from this slab, free his immobilized hands, stop these med-droids from transforming him into…

Clinks of metal and hums of machinery roar in his ears, piercing his addled mind. Something holds him, yet he struggles mightily through a vortex of pain. He can almost hear Obi-Wan, calm and matter-of-fact despite the gravity of things: _Well, this is quite the predicament you've gotten us into, padawan…_

Blast, _where_ is his lightsaber? If he can just summon it… Then again, the thought of something so searing in his scorched palm makes him want to retch.

Fight, Skywalker, he commands internally. They prod, drill, invade his flesh, provoke furious moans that fuel his anger. He lets loose a string of foul curses in Huttese, then clenches his teeth, pinches his cerulean eyes tight, gathers himself to do what he must.

Fight, Anakin.

Where did the light go? He can't… he can't touch the Force yet, much as he tries. It shimmers just beyond him, tantalizes as the strum and clank of metal grows louder in his ears. There are vague sensations of physical attachments – _kriff,_ not another durasteel arm! Now, there will be nothing human to touch her, to stroke his way from her earlobe to her hip in the delicate manner that makes her shudder…

_Padme._ Why isn't she here to stop this madness? Why can't he remember where she is?

_Fight,_ he goads himself as the pain reaches an apex that makes him howl, then unleash another round of expletives before they're swallowed in an anguished gasp. For Padme. For your children. You must fight!

His head is abnormally heavy; something binds him from forehead to breastbone in an unyielding cusp of steel. An eerie hiss drones in a slow, torturous rhythm. His hand moves, but it is not _his_ hand; more clinking of metallic substitutes for fingers. No matter; the robotic will grip his lightsaber, and once he escapes he'll sort out this blasted suit that confines him…

"Lord Vader." The voice slithers around him, puts his senses on high alert even as he struggles to acclimate to his current situation. What would Obi-Wan advise now? _Stay calm, Anakin, open yourself to the Force and let it guide your actions…_

For a split second, he yearns to bicker with his master once more. The story he'll have to regale Obi-Wan once he worms out of this mess…

"Lord Vader, can you hear me?" The voice is more aggressive this time, expectant. Through a haze of magenta, he sees grotesquely wrinkled skin, a too-red mouth, eyes gleaming a sickly yellow.

_Lord Vader_.

Explosions and fire and furious slashes of lightsabers. Astonishment, then fury, then unmitigated sorrow as Obi-Wan repels a murderous attack.

Padme, her hands wrenching on his shoulders, pleading. _Come away with me._ A flash of fear in her eyes as he holds her life in his fingertips. Curling, squeezing, tightening. A teardrop on her lovely cheek that vaporizes in the acrid heat before she hits the ground…

Falling. Her. Him.

Darkness. Fire. Pain. _Darkness._

Someone devastatingly changed answers the Emperor. His struggles against the bindings diminish, but his fake hands remain clenched as he stares into a face he's known since childhood, but really _sees_ for the first time.

"Yes… _Master." _There is silence, and a scintilla of hope as he tries to find the light again, but his head is heavy, his chest excruciatingly tight.

The mask seems impenetrable, yet if he tries, if he fights harder…

"Where is Padme?" That is _not_ his voice. The tenor is harsh, ominous. It can be remedied; the Jedi healers will know how to right this. "Is she safe? Is she all right?"

The emperor's face is impassive, yet one side of his mouth turns slightly upward as he answers with deliberate purpose. "It seems that, in your… anger… you killed her."

No… _no!_ He stutters through the mask, words laced with loss and terror so clawing that he seizes within his new tomb. "I… I _couldn't_ have. She was _alive_! _I felt it…"_

Panicked beyond reason, he reaches greedily for something, _anything,_ to alter this unfathomable reality. His immersion is immediate; a cloak of dark comfort beckons, soothes, surrounds as raw power surges again, evident as the room vibrates in violence.

Darth Sidious observes with a cackle, but does not taunt. Yet. The prideful boy has been destroyed; what rages before him is a damaged, savagely lethal apprentice.

Mission accomplished.

Amid the destruction of the chamber, the Chosen One embraces his new destiny. A final cry, mournful and haunting, will be the last sound heard from Anakin Skywalker.

He can fight no longer.


	3. Chapter 3 - Attach

_**The first time Anakin decides to fight, he's trembling in a royal starship…**_

_Your motivation is my writing mojo, so if you read, I'd be muchos gratified if you'd also leave some feedback. Hats' off to Mr. Lucas for the characters, but this vein is my own creation. _

The boy doesn't understand.

"A - ta - whatsits?" he asks, brushing fine grains of sand from the Jedi Master's robe for the second time in as many minutes. Even on a royal starship heading away from the planet of their origin, those clinging grains have managed to survive. "And what does it have to do with Kitster?"

Attachments, the towering Jedi explains, tone low and even. Like it's a completely innocuous term in Basic. Like it won't sever a part of the precocious boy's all-too-small world the moment it leaves Qui-Gon Jinn's mouth.

"Attachments are people who bind us to a life apart from the Jedi Order, Anakin. Those who may dilute our commitment to the Order and divide our focus of preserving civilization throughout the galaxy."

His tone is patient, soothing, light-years from Watto's churlish garble.

"Oh." The boy's deceptively innocent face brightens. "Kitster's not an attachment; he's just my best friend."

"An attachment, I'm afraid," replies the cerebral Qui-Gon Jinn. The image of himself at age nine, sparring with a fiercely beautiful Noorian in the bowels of the Temple, passes fleetingly through this mind. And, just as quickly, he remembers how his transgression became betrayal – he, of the Code he'd sworn to uphold, however loosely, and she, of his heart, to which she'd pledged her own.

Yes, this bronzed boy from Tatooine, clever yet rebellious beyond his tender age, reminds Qui-Gon of someone.

Anakin's blue eyes crinkle as the information seems to penetrate. Jedi Code or no, he could connect with Kitster again someday; perhaps when he returns in his own stately-billowing robe to unshackle his mother. Until then, though…

He is jarred by how different his daily life will become.

Watto… well, he'll leave the Toydarian and his backhands – both compliments and actual blows – behind without a glance. Though Anakin will genuinely miss tinkering with everything that whistles, clanks and sputters in Watto's shop. But, _kriff,_ he'll get his own lightsaber, and the stars will hold no mystery once he's conquered them all.

Then, someday, when he becomes a true Jedi, he'll rid his home planet of slavers, and freedom won't be just another illusion that scatters like the wayward sands of Mos Espa.

"What about Threepio?" the boy inquires, mindful of the hours he's spent honing the intricacies of the droid he's left behind. "Droids aren't people!" Kitster had scoffed, but Anakin knows he's on the right track. Just a few more tweaks someday… a different arm… _definitely_ putter with the personality chips…

"He is a fine protocol droid, and with such… charm," Qui-Gon remarks with a tinge of mischief. "Perhaps we should have asked Padme to convince the Queen of his usefulness."

Padme.

Unbidden, the boy's mouth curves upward as he curls further into the crimson blanket. He'd been nervous to present her with the scrap of a carving he'd done; a wooden trinket seemed too lowly an offering, though she was a servant, too, wasn't she? But the smile she'd bestowed upon accepting it had alleviated his tremors of cold and uncertainty far better than the snug throw.

He would have to _see_ Padme again to ensure the snippet's promise of good fortune was genuine, wouldn't he?

Since he's figured a bit of how this attachment thing works now, Anakin does not ask about the sable-haired handmaiden who moves with a regal grace. There's something elusive about her, anyway, her too-clean, too smooth hands and naivete regarding certain facts of life on the Outer Rim.

He _will _see her again. This attachments rule can't be that ingrained.

If it is, well… on this _one_ thing, perhaps Anakin will negotiate with his master.

Fight, if he must, though he doesn't want to defy his saviors.

It won't come to that, he decides.

"What about you?" the youth asks, inquisitive eyes focused on the impassive Jedi Master. "If I am your pad-, pad-a – "

"Padawan," Qui-Gon supplies.

"Padawan." Anakin repeats it slowly, enunciating every syllable. It's more than a simple word to this savvy slave-boy, Qui Gon realizes. It's another tool for this young one who exhibits wizardry in _fixing _things. This opportunity is a means for him to transform his entire life.

"If I'm your padawan, won't you become an attachment, too? And Obi-Wan? If you train us both, isn't that like being buddies, or brothers, or something?"

Which could make Obi-Wan a bit like Kitster is now, Anakin posits. _This_ is why his head is spinning like a pod racer in a blinding sandstorm. The rules of this Jedi Order seem so… changeable.

What the kriff have I gotten myself into? he scowls, petulantly enough that the Jedi Master grins at the boy's vehement thoughts.

But then, Qui-Gon spies Anakin's bottom lip trembling as he swipes a calloused hand over too-bright eyes and opens his mouth. It seems sluggish, too heavy to form words. _Don't ask,_ the boy tells himself. _Then you can say you never knew…_

"My mother's an attachment, isn't she?"

Despite his straightforward countenance, the Jedi Master finds that he must avert his gaze from the stricken boy. His attention falls to a trickle of stars, their brilliance streaking outside the porthole of the royal starship. We're giving him the stars, Qui-Gon thinks dully, but taking away his sun.

"Yes, Anakin." There is no gesture of comfort as Qui-Gon's stare remains fixed. Though the master empathizes, surely better than any at the Temple will, he knows this is the first crucial lesson he will impart on the Chosen One. "I'm sorry."

There is no reaction. The boy's quiver has ceased, his shoulders squared resolutely in tandem with the stoic elegance of Qui-Gon's posture. Anakin's crystalline eyes have wandered not into the mesmerizing complexity of space, but to the tattered shoes he will discard the moment he earns a shiny pair of Jedi boots.

If Qui-Gon had ventured a look into the boy's eyes, the defiant blaze of crystalline may have alarmed him.

_I will return to Tatooine,_ the boy vows in a mantra that etches instantly in his consciousness._ My mother will be free someday. I will make it so. _

On this, he will fight. Even the Jedi.


End file.
